When it Rains in The Catskills

It had been a few years since the cool waters of the Beaverkill last swirled around my legs. The Catskills call each spring, just as the herring run tapers off at home, but I had failed the heed for a couple seasons. I was here now a little later than I'd like, on June 10th, and at first it was looking rather bleak. The water was low and there weren't many bugs on the water.

At sunset, the switch was flipped and I started to see heads. Lot of heads, and some big ones. As one rose, engulfed my caddis, then turned back down, a big grin came across my face. This was what it was all about. A constant flow of chunky brown trout came to hand until it was too dark to see my flies any more.

 

As dusk faded to darkness and the hatch dissipated, I took a seat on a rock and allowed some time for the fish to adjust to the next feeding pattern. I'd not gotten to properly night fish on any of my previous Catskill's trips. It was with serious anticipation that I tied a new, stout leader on. Two flies, a Muddler and a large Harvey's Pusher, would be the work horses tonight. Finished rigging, I stood slowly and walked to the head of the pool to start my first pass. Slowly and methodically, the Muddler and Pusher were worked twice over through each foot of likely water. It wasn't many casts before there came a bump, and not many after that when a fish took hard and was hooked. It was another chunky holdover brown like those I'd been catching on dries.

The first pass of the pool produced a steady pick of typical fish, mid sized hatchery fish and small wild browns. The second pass produced nothing until I was greeted by a violent pull. I raised the rod and was on, but only briefly. "Damn, huge fish." I muttered under my breath. It had taken in less than a foot of water, roughly slow walking pace flow...classic night time big trout water. Two casts later I was on. It was a nice fish, and fighting incredibly hard, but it clearly wasn't what the last one was. A high teens wild brown trout, however, using my favorite methods, was more than enough to satiate my long standing Catskills night fishing need.

It then started to rain. It never stopped until well after sunrise. Knowing what was inevitable, I decided the best course of action was to head to the West Branch. There, however, a thick bank of fog hindered any chance of a good bite.

I wasted too much time there, and back on the Beaverkill I'd have but a brief window for a good streamer bite in the rising water. As the water got muddier and muddier and rose at a blistering pace, I worked the soft pockets and clearer water at tributary mouths. This can produce quality fish... it was not unsuccessful this time around. A gorgeous wild brown slammed my streamer just under the surface in the pocket behind a large boulder.

As the water continued to rise it became increasingly difficult to find willing fish. I sneaked out one more colorful holdover before things became essentially un-fishable. It didn't seem to matter either, I went back to the West Branch, I went to the East Branch... same story. Chocolate milk. 

 The writing was on the wall, so I did what anyone would do when the fishing sucks... I went looking for snakes. Did I say anyone? I'm sorry, I meant "very few people"... I'm not the only one, Tim Borski or Frank Smethurst among others might well do the same thing in the same situation. Unfortunately, it was now the hottest part of the day and even the snakes under slabs of shale in the talus slides I was flipping were charged up and quick to dive into the rocks and out of my reach. The largest milk snake I've ever seen was among a number of snakes I'd have like to have photographed that evaded my capture. A couple garters and ringnecks weren't enough to hold my attention as the sun became too much.

My time in the Catskills was now limited. I'd spent plans A, B, C, and D. I looked at the map and wondered. Maybe the Neversink would be fishable?

Let's just say it was. And let's say I fell in love. And I'll tell you I'll be back to that river. Some rivers and I speak the same language, and the Neversink is one of them.

A lot might happen when it rains in the Catskills. You could catch the biggest brown trout of your life. You could get stuck waiting for the deluge to end under a bridge. Or you could have to change watersheds entirely and discover a new favorite river. I love when it rains in the Catskills.
Until next time,

Fish for the love of fish.

Fish for the love of places fish live.

Fish for you.

And stay safe and healthy.

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